I know now what I’m drinking. I had always thought of blood like wine or grape juice—something sweeter and clearer than this. This is sweat and spit and agony; bitter, thick, blood. It lies slick and heavy on my tongue. I cannot swallow, but I cannot spit it out. A hand on my shoulder, He watches. His eyes, watching, patiently watching…it is too much!

“I cannot!” I sputter. “How can you ask this of me!?”

I do not need to apologize for the ridiculousness of my outburst. He knows my mind, and I remember. Every jolt of the mallet as I pounded those nails through his hands--I remember. The Lamb I mocked. The King I crucified. The blood I spilled. And now, I drink.

There is firmness in his tender touch as he wipes tears from eyes that had long forgotten how to cry.

“This is my love, spilled for you,” says He. “Drink.”

The cup to my lips, the tremble of my breath...then the feel of it, smoothing down my tongue, my throat, my heaving chest, my burning heart.

“Rest now.” He smiles, and it is truer for the pain that textures it. “Rest, my child. It is finished.”

“You were dead!” I choke. “I killed you!”

“So were you,” He replies. “But look. I am alive.”